A Dream of Companionship
by Arkenshield
Summary: "In which Sherlock Holmes teaches John Watson how to waltz..."
1. The Best Man

**Author's note:** Please bear in mind that this was written before the broadcast of _His Last Vow_. So should the last episode change anything (as it undoubtedly would), do note that this was written with the mindset that lacks any insight to that last episode.

* * *

><p>The sun was beating through the windowpanes of 221b Baker Street into their- no, <em>his<em> living-room, when John Watson's head snapped to the direction of his voice.

After exchanging a few more sentences that, as anybody would have guessed, did not do the least to facilitate their communication, John rolled his eyes from his seat in the old-fangled red-and-green armchair that used to reek of black coffee but didn't anymore after Sherlock's return, and shifted so that he was sitting faced the detective.

"Let me get this straight," John gestured with a hand-motion that looked like he was doing a single vertical handshake with the air in front of his ear, disbelief in his eyes clear as a new cover-slip, "_You_ are offering to teach me how to dance?"

"You heard me the first time round John," Sherlock frowned. "The fact that you elected to repeat the question only left me to conclude that you were unsure whether or not to accept the offer. I am inclined to believe that my question was sufficiently straightforward, hence it brought me to a second question: what was it that made you sceptical? I suspect that-"

"Stop," John raised a hand to put an end to his ramble, the little man sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. After a swift glance at the doctor, Sherlock quickly filed the information away into his 'Work' storage. _Doesn't like the serviettes that Mary picked. Why? They're peppered with clear, glossy little bikes. John developed a distaste for bikes after 'the incident'. Wanted plain serviettes with matching coloured swan or the Sydney Opera House matte-pattern in a corner. Well, that's out of the picture now, the bike ones are bought. Rectify situation: Youtube. Fold. Serviettes. Sydney Opera House/Swan. Or both, both is good. Tuck bikes into folds._

"Yes, I do know how to dance," he replied, deducing-no, _knowing_ that John had asked the question.

Glancing up to meet John's eyes, he quickly added, "_Not_ hip-hop."

John gave a small laugh that sounded a bit like bells. _Dreadful church bells. Ring-a-ding-a-ding. Oh the big day... The big, awful day._

"So, what do you say?" He prompted, swishing the violin bow at his partner-in-crime-solving, "Are you going to let me teach you?"

"Are you _sure_?"

"John, something in your tone tells me you are doubting my sanity more than my ability to dance. If it would make things easier for both of us, I will ensure you that I am no more sane now than I was when that cab driver drugged me. So," he pressed, ignoring John's slow shaking of his head and a quiet mumble of 'an absolutely charming reminder, I killed a man that night.', and continued, "Are we dancing?"

Still staring distrustingly at Sherlock, John opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He opened his mouth again - _and_ then closed it again, but the moment when Sherlock's patience and - good manners - were just about running out, John raised both hands in defeat.

"Alright, alright! Since you came way out of your comfort zone with this offer, it's only fair if I contribute equally on my part. What dance are we doing?"

Sherlock set his violin bow down with one last flourishing whip, then hopped to his feet and strode over to the radio.

"The Waltz," he said, expression unchanging, "You and Mary will be waltzing at your wedding recession."

"-Reception," John corrected, "And what made you believe you are certified to preside over the progression of our wedding night, if I may ask?"

"I'm your best man, and recession or reception makes no difference. Both witness economic decline at varying degrees and different stages."

"That's not what best men do, Sherlock," John shook his head, but decided to let the matter about the Waltz drop. The army doctor got up to join his detective by the radio that was already emitting soft, silvery notes into the flat.

"Now what?" John asked, crossing his arms behind his back and rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, "Are you teaching me, or are you dancing with me?"

"...Shshh..."

Sherlock a raised his finger to his lips to gently hushed him, and spoke softly.

"Listen to the music, John. Close your eyes..."

Dancing... the only time when he let all his mental exercises hang.

"Close my-... Sherlock, _what?_"

"I'm teaching you how to move in time with the music, John," he snapped - _God! Why couldn't this man just do as he's been told?_ - but then added a little more gently, "Now, just close your eyes, and follow my lead."

He placed his hands on John's upper arms, indicating that the other man should do the same. John did so a little awkwardly, and with a nod, let his eyes fall shut.

"Now," Sherlock continued, speaking softly over the music playing in the background, "I will be moving in time with the slow beats, so when I step forward, you step back."

"How am I suppose to know you're stepping forward? I can't see a damn thing!"

"In ballroom," he explained patiently, "The leader leads with their body, so whichever direction I want you to go, you'll feel the lead."

The frown lines on John's face told him that none of what he just said had made any sense whatsoever, but if he had questions, the smaller man obviously thought it better than to ask.

"_One..._ Two, three," Sherlock began, pressing forward, forcing John to step back, "_One..._ Two, three," angling to the side slightly so they didn't run into the cabinet, "_One..._ Two, three-"

They went round the lamp. John tripped on the edge of the carpet but kept his eyes shut tightly, trusting Sherlock to not let them crash.

"... And _One..._ Two, three- bend your knees a little more, John. That's it. Never lock your knees in the Waltz, keep them flexible. _One_... Two, three"

As they danced, the lines between John's brows gradually lessened and the thin line that was his lips pressing together relaxed. To the detective's satisfaction, John began to move more fluidly, learning to take directions from him.

"...Will any of this ever come into use?" the army doctor mused as he stepped unseeingly around a sofa. The bullet-punctured yellow face on the wall smiled down at them, "I'll be leading Mary, aren't I?"

"You'll learn," Sherlock replied shortly, and continued to lead John along the mantelpiece as the first song faded out. Then, suddenly, Leann Rime's voice was slurring out of the speakers.

_So many nights..._

_I sit by my window-_

"_One_... Two, three," Sherlock counted a little louder, not liking what he was hearing, but not wishing to stop either now that John was getting a hang of the movements.

_Alone in the dark... But now_

_You've come along-_

-_And you, light up my life..._

"Chin up, John."

_You give me hope,_

"Straighten your back."

"Give me a break here, Sherlock!"

_...To carry on._

_You light up my days..._

_And fill my nights, with songs-_

Sherlock drew to a halt in front of the radio and slammed his hand down to put an end to the blasted song. John opened his eyes, confused, and Sherlock gave him a strained smile.

"Well done, that was very good. Well- when I say that I mean you still need to work on your rises and falls, but we'll continue tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" John still looked confused, little beads of sweat clinging to the roots of his hair from the exertion - _yes, most people fail to recognise that ballroom is a bloody workout_ _-_ "Why not now? I was only thinking this might actually be fun."

"Because a cab had just driven off, suggesting Mary will be knocking on the front door right about-"

Knock, knock, knock!

"-now. Best Sunday dress, the one pair of stilettos she owns, J'adore perfume, an old Chanel purse - worn at the rim but very well treasured, given to her by a..." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. _An ex-boyfriend who was still pining after her all these years. Either David or Tom...Oh? David it is. Tom's resorted to drinking. Time to play the high-functioning sociopath card again..._

"...-An old acquaintance. Clearly she wants to go somewhere special. Quite likely it's the Ladurée at Harrods, considering the time. Now go get changed."

"J'adore?! How did you-"

"She uses only one perfume, John, you are bound to already know that. She either wears it or she doesn't. Judging from how she's dressed today, anybody could guess-"

"How the _bloody_ hell did you know what she was wearing?" John's face was a mixture of annoyance and fascination, "You were dancing with me."

"I saw her from outside the window, John. Did it not cross your mind that I could not have possibly lead the dance with my eyes closed without crashing us both-

"I don't know, you're bloody Sherlock Holmes," his friend laughed as he gathered his jumper up from his armchair, looking more relaxed after having danced, "You might just have the contours of this room memorized."

Sherlock gave him a tight smile as he dug his hands into his trousers pocket, standing rooted to the spot.

"Yes, I might..."

The door shut behind him, and John's footsteps on the stairs faded into the distance.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and turned around, bending down to pick up the music sheets that the wind had swept to the floor.

As he scanned his eyes around the living-room painted with memory of the past four years, suddenly, the cramped little flat in the middle of London just looked a lot... bigger.

...Emptier.

The sun was setting outside his windows, leaving only a ray of orange light filtering in to sweep the room in with its bitter glow.

A cold breeze flushed in.

...and Sherlock shivered.


	2. My Stranger

_"_It's just a bloody dance, Sherlock! No need to get all _anal_ about - ruddy angles!"

"It's the Waltz, John!"

"And it's _MY _bloody wedding!"

"And I'm trying to prevent you from making an utter _fool_ out of yourself at _your _wedding!"

John swore. Barring his teeth at the floor, he scratched the nape of his neck in annoyance. Looking up again, the detective still had that stubborn look on his face, and John let out another string of profanities.

"Language..."

"Go suck on your bloody 135 degree turn. It's a dance, not some blasted quadratic equations!"

They were practicing in one of Queen Academy's most prestigious dance studios, and John had his suspicions. Either Mycroft had managed to secure a private booking for them - which was unlikely, given that Sherlock would probably have had to ask him to do it, which, if John knew the man well enough as he was sure he did, would never happen before Anderson wished them a Happy Easter - or Sherlock had connections.

Which, again, was pretty unlikely, given how posh, pretentious, and hence worthless for connection-making these sort of institutions were for Sherlock

The truth, was that Sherlock had called in to book the studio some months ago, and paid for it himself.

Of course, John didn't need to know that.

"_Fall.._. Rise, rise. _Fall.._. Rise, rise."

"Bend down a little lower on the first beat and take a long stride - creates the impression you're taller than you actually are when you rise again."

"Sod off."

Sherlock let out an sigh and let go of his dance partner's arms. It just wasn't happening today. Matters not, he had the place booked for tomorrow and Friday as well. Two more lessons before the the real deal. Two more days before the wedding. Two more dances before the last Waltz...

He switched off the gigantic stereo.

"What would you like to do?" He asked, knowing whole-heartedly that John knew he was putting up a front. _Sherlock Holmes asking for your opinion? Piss off. _He knew that John knew he just didn't want to go home. He didn't want to stay _home_, alone. Would John care, though? After all, he did leave John at _home_ all by himself for two years, and along with it a haunting memory of his dead body. Sherlock paused, hesitating, "-Lunch?"

What did he expect John to reply? _'Lunch? You never eat lunch, Sherlock. Mind you, I've never even seen you at the breakfast table.'_ Or even, _'Oh, did anybody hear 'the woman'? "I'm not hungry, let's have dinner!" Never realised you were this fond of her, Sherlock. -_ And in the next moment they'd be running down to the street, hailing a cabbie to Angelo's. John would have a spaghetti bolognese, and Sherlock would watch him eat. The usual.

Instead, the familiar stranger he knew shook his head with a smile and said.

"Sorry, Sherlock, no can do... I-uh... told Mary I'd take her to this Thai place near Earl's Court today..." John paused in a moment of hesitation. Sherlock held his gaze, but his doctor quickly evaded it. John sighed, "-Maybe some other time...?"

Time. Yes, of course. All the time in the world. Sherlock wanted to laugh. Perhaps it was not quite enough, not the time he had left with what had become his world.

"Yes, of course," he forced a strained smile and quickly looked away, "Some other time..."

His phone buzzed.

John didn't need to know that it hadn't.

He swiped to read the 'new message'.

"Lestrade." He said, knowing John had arched his eyebrows, "Wants me on a case. Old Vic Theatre, Waterloo." He strode over to the other side of to studio to pick up his coat and scarf, before tugging them on. "Somebody tried to give an actor hypothermia by dunking a pail of iced water on him. Should be interesting."

_Interesting? Was that the best he could come up with? Some actor and bloody hypothermia. _

Frustrated, he turned around and headed for the door without so much as looking back. Perhaps John's had enough...

_'- Enough for a lifetime... far too much.'_

_...But perhaps he want to see some more? Just one more?_

_Perhaps-_

"...I'm sorry, Sherlock."

...Or perhaps Sherlock was a little too hopeful.

The door clicked shut. He didn't turn back. He didn't want to see the sad smile flickering in his stranger's eyes.

* * *

><p>St. James was busy. Loud. Filled with happy, annoying tourists. - Didn't that one case with the Indonesian smuggler happen just round the corner? That was years ago now. Sherlock Holmes did not dwell on the past. Ah, Buckingham Palace.<p>

_'Are you wearing any pants?'_

_'No.'_

_'I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.'_

_...And the laughed._

"Hello."

Sherlock looked up from his pensive, a stranger was smiling at him. Tall, thin, muscled. Mirth in his familiar blue eyes. Definitely a stranger.

"May I sit?" the man gestured to the space on the bench Sherlock was occupying. The detective shrugged and nodded, the man sat down.

"So... Nice day isn't it?" the blue-eyed stranger began, crossing his hands behind his head and looking up at the sky, that disturbing smile never disappearing from those thin lips. Sherlock suddenly felt annoyed, he got up.

"If you'll excuse me-"

"You'll never run away, Sherlock Holmes..."

His head snapped back. The stranger was still sitting there, lazing on the bench, but his fierce blue eyes were unwavering as they stared back into Sherlock's cold ones, as if daring Sherlock to disagree.

"From... what?" The detective shot back, his tone ice-cold.

The stranger sneered, his familiar blue eyes glistening.

"This happy breed of men..." he drawled in a low voice, his tone darkening, "This little world..."

Sherlock snorted.

"Indeed. This Earth, this realm, this England..." he said, raising his brows, "It's all so _ordinary_, isn't it?"

The man grinned mischievously, and just as quickly as it had come, the menace in his eyes disappeared.

"So!" the brown-haired chap chirped happily as he got up to stand, "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes." He gave Sherlock a mocking salute, before slipping his iPod back into his tracksuit bottoms' pocket, plugging in his earphones, turned around and was about to resume his jog when Sherlock called out to him.

"Wait."

The man turned back, his expression unchanging as he waited for Sherlock to continue.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The man smiled.

"Tom Hiddleston," he said.

"That's not your real name, though, is it?"

Tom laughed and shook his head, "Of course not, my dear Mr. Holmes."

"I thought not," Sherlock couldn't hide the small grin that tucked at his lips, "You are welcome... The address is 221b Baker Street."

The familiar stranger met his eyes, and enunciated slowly every syllable.

"- And the name is Thomas William _Holmes_. It's been a pleasure, Sherlock."

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><p>It was already ten at night, and the radio in the flat was still belching out that God-awful music.<p>

_...And still I dream he'll come to me- _

_That we will live the years together,_

_But there are dreams that cannot be...!_

_And there are storms we cannot-_

He _groaned_ and flicked the radio off. Of course Mycroft could do it, _would_ do it. BBC1 radio or not, whoever's top chart didn't matter anymore when his brother was set to making Sherlock's life a living hell.

As a revenge for bailing out on the _Les Mis_ incident, Mycroft seemed to think that he was responsible for ensuring that Sherlock always had music from the bloody play blasting in his ears wherever he went. His computer had been hacked, and before Sherlock realised, Spotify had already churned out five _Les Mis_ songs in his wake. Even 221b Baker Street was bugged. If he left the windows open, chances were that within two minutes there would be vans parading down the street, blasting out 'On my own'. It was driving Sherlock up the wall when he was trying to compose a piece of his own.

He flopped down onto his armchair, rubbing his palms over his face as he heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps coming up the stairs. He _knew_ what she was going to say to him. _'Oh, Sherlock, dear. Marriage changes everybody!', _yes, yes, yes. He knew that already! Wanting to have it rubbed into his mind again or not was a different matter.

Three light taps on the door, followed immediately by the sound of the doorknob turning, and Mrs. Hudson was balancing a tray of tea set into the room.

_"In my life," _his landlady hummed happily,_"There is someone who touches my life..."_

"Oh, no. Not _you _as well!"

"What are doing up so late, dear?"

"I'm composing a Waltz."

"Hmmhmm..!"

Mrs. Hudson sauntered over to the kitchen table where he was sat, crumpled music scores littering his vicinity.

"Dear, Sherlock- what a mess!"

"Don't touch that."

"I've made you tea, should lighten you up a little."

"I don't need 'lightening up'."

"Oh why dear, of course you do. What with the wedding looming just round the corner this weekend!" She patted his arm consolingly and tried to look him in the eye, and he looked away but she rambled on, "I understand you, dear. My best friend, Margaret – she was my chief bridesmaid. We were going to be best friends forever, we always said that..."

_'I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world.'_

_'Yes...?'_

_'Mary Morstan.'_

_'Yes...'_

_'And... you.'_

"...she cried the whole day. I remember she left early."

He didn't realise when he'd tuned out.

"- I mean, who leaves a wedding early? So sad..."

Sherlock looked down at the tea tray. There was a pot, and only one cup.

"Where's John?" he nodded at the tray, cutting Mrs. Hudson half-sentenced.

"Why, I assume he's staying over at his fiancée's of course?" she said, already halfway to the door, assuming he wanted to be left alone. He did.

Alone, without his world.

"He didn't tell me he wasn't coming home today." He said, quickly.

"Oh Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson whispered, closing the door behind her, "this is _your_ _home_ now."

The door swung shut. The room fell silent.

...And the bullet-punctured yellow face on the wall smiled down mockingly at him.


End file.
